


go on and light a cigarette, set a fire in my head

by myholyground



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcohol, Angst, F/M, Family Drama, Implied Sexual Content, Incest, Non-Graphic Violence, i mean it's the secret history after all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 18:46:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13642284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myholyground/pseuds/myholyground
Summary: Camilla doesn’t like to make comparisons between Charles and Henry; but sometimes it happens.





	go on and light a cigarette, set a fire in my head

Every time with Charles is like a test; a test for her, a test for him. How long will it last? How much will she have to bear, how drunk will he be? Charles is not drunk tonight, but he asks her to pour him a drink. She takes a sip before handing him the whiskey, and he places his lips on the edge of the glass in the same spot where hers left a translucent smudge. He almost doesn’t notice when he does it, an unwitting and revealing gesture, a habit and a mania; just like when he fondles her hair, or holds the door open for her, o hands her a cigarette. Muscle memory.

White sheets are tangled around Charles’ hips, his pale back on full display, and he sustains himself on his elbows while he leafs through an old copy of _Medea_. Camilla is wearing his brother’s shirt, the dark circles under her eyes as the only color on her face, knees pulled to her chest. She watches her brother, she wears his clothes, she smells of his scent; they share a heart, sometimes a mind.

«What would you do for me?» He often asks this, the counterpart of _«How important am I to you?»_ , a paraphrased _«How much do you love me?»_. Charles asks with specific nonchalance while penetrating her with his gaze. He rises from the bed, graceful as a stag, and the sheets slide off his hips; Camilla can’t recall the very moment when her brother’s nakedness has become a problem.

«Would you lie for me?» Charles knows the answer to this question (Camilla has lied for him countless times).

«Would you bleed for me? Would you sacrifice yourself to save me?»

Every time with Charles is like a test; he tests her courage, he tests her love.

He’s towering over her; he studies her, compels her to speak with a prolonged silence, a drink in his hand and the night in his eyes.

_There’s a menace in my bed_.

Camilla recalls the very moment when she started thinking of Charles as a menace. A few minutes later he’d held her and kissed the bruises on her arms. _Just like when we were kids_ , he’d said.

Camilla’s chin points to Charles’ lips, while his eyes scan her face. He is waiting. There was a time when Camilla would have answered with no hesitation _«I’do anything for you.»_ Just like when they were kids. Now that kind of answer is too wholehearted, too binding, too wrong.

«Yes.» she answers.

Charles kneels down to hug her sister’s waist, laying his head on her lap like he’s done countless times. Camilla’s fingers absentmindedly run through her brother’s hair, drawing labyrinthine trails.

«You’d never leave me, would you, Milly?»

_Would you lie for me?_ _Would you sacrifice yourself to save me?_

There are many things Camilla knows about Charles, pretty much everything. But the fact that he needs a certain type of reassurance is new. Because Camilla has lied, but she’s never lied to Charles; and she has bled, but she’s never bled because of Charles; and she has sacrificed herself, but the sacrifice has never been driven by selfishness. They’re not kids anymore. Now Camilla _lies to_ Charles, and bleeds _because of_ Charles, and she sacrifices herself to _save herself_ and not him.

«No.» she answers.

Charles presses his lips on her bare legs, breathing in her scent, retaining it in his mind, imprinting it on his tongue; then he stands, and she feels freed. Camilla will never be free.

 

Charles lights a cigarette.

 

 

 

Camilla does not dare make comparisons between Charles and Henry. They’re different situations. Charles is her brother, the first man she’s ever loved ‒ long before her father. Henry is her friend, the only man she will ever love ‒ long after his death.

The hotel room he rented for her is acquiring an ever-increasing personality: the bed is permanently unmade, the sheets are soaked in a blend of their scents, their clothes are piled up in indistinct heaps, the furniture adorned with filthy and empty glasses, the ashtrays are filled with steaming cigarette ends and ash and dust. Camilla watches the closed curtains steeped in smoke as if they’re a window into a different city.

It’s been days since she last saw Charles.

She smokes with a deliberate sluggishness, barely pressing her lips on the cigarette, and watches the puff of smoke fade. Exactly like her.

Henry’s light touch on her shoulders brings her back into the physical world, which makes her aware of a pounding headache. Henry sits on the armchair in front of her, leaning in with his elbows on his knees. He watches her and she watches him: Henry’s eyes are like stormy skies when they’re not hidden behind his glasses. He holds her hand while she blows a puff of smoke.

Henry’s touch is gentle and warm and soothing and _so different from Charles’…_

Camilla doesn’t like to make comparisons between Charles and Henry; but sometimes it happens.

Henry’s fingertips make their way through the cuff of the shirt Camilla’s wearing ‒ Henry’s shirt. He gently pushes the too-long sleeve aside, exposing her pale wrist and revealing the purple marks around it. Henry dares not touch them. Instead, he turns the back of her hand and traces the trail of her bluish veins all the way up to her forearm. That faint touch tickles her skin and makes her giggle: Henry watches her with a new light in his eyes and laughs with her. Holding her hand, he leans in and kisses her. Camilla closes her eyes, savoring that earthly and spiritual feeling that only Henry can make her feel: suddenly, she becomes aware of her body, of his body, while everything else is hazy and distant, as if they’re not really there. She keeps her eyes closed, even when she feels Henry’s lips on her ear, even when his breath makes her hair stand on end.

_«Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.»*_

Camilla has always though of Henry as reassuring, wise, never uncouth; that’s who he is with her, in private, and with the rest fo the world, in public. There are many different sides of Henry, and they’re all so vivid and complex that they feel like separate individuals. Sometimes Camilla is haunted by a nagging thought: it’s hard to tell who Henry really is when the crease in his smile is a promise of both shelter and perdition. Henry is a god trapped in the body of a man; he has a general’s mind, always ready to battle, and an emperor’s strength, able to force kingdoms into submission. While she eyes him pacing the floor with measured calm, Camilla can almost see his power leak and overflow and flood the room, and she wonders how does he manage to control it. He is her god.

 

Henry lights a cigarette.

 

 

 

 

_*and perhaps it will please us one day to remember these things_

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from Trouble by Halsey, which inspired the first part (as you can see by the quoted verses), while the second part was inspired by Halsey’s Is There Somewhere. also, english is not my first language so i apologize for any mistake, but if you want to point them out in the comments i’ll be glad to correct them :) thanks


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